


Tell your Hairdresser

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Hurt and comfort, hairdresser au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:48:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23568607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Sequel to Jaime Goldenhands. Jaime doing Brienne's hair has become a regular thing, and Brienne cannot help but be comforted by the familiarity of his touch.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 11
Kudos: 131





	Tell your Hairdresser

“Seven hells!” Jaime cried out in comical terror. “What did you manage to do to your hair this time?” He gazed in an almost admiring horror at the matted, black sticky mess she had scraped back in a ponytail. “Wench that nasty all in one stuff you keep using after practise is bad enough, but  _ tar? Really?  _ Do you want to send me to an early grave?”

Usually Jaime’s lectures about the state of Brienne’s hair provoked nothing but eye rolls, but it was so familiar, so ordinary, that Brienne; who had been in something of a daze ever since she left the showers at the pool, suddenly found herself brought back to earth. She felt the heavy wet clumps sticking to her scalp, the thick sludge trickling down her neck, for what felt like the first time.

“I don’t think it is tar,” she muttered gruffly, “Can you get it out or not?”

Jaime’s professional side took over as he examined the thick substance coating her hair. He ran his fingers over it in consideration. “Soy sauce,” he said at last, “mixed with treacle and god knows what else. It’s in there pretty deep, but I should be able to get it out.”

Brienne nodded quietly. Probably stuff from the canteen at the pool. She followed Jaime to his bathroom and sat patiently on her chair as he spread a towel around her shoulders and gently tugged and teased the elastic from her hair. 

The first time Jaime had washed her hair, running massaging her scalp with those strong, confident fingers, Brienne’s heart had been in her mouth at the unexpected tenderness of his touch. Now, sitting back, listening to Jaime talk over the running of hot, steaming water, there was a comforting routine to it all that broke Brienne out of her funk. Jaime kept up a steady stream of talk as always, usually complaints, usually about the evils the chlorine was doing to Brienne’s already naturally brittle hair. 

This time it was about the junior students Jaime was forced to help give demonstrations to.

“Honestly Wench, they made that butchery Sansa Stark did to your hair look like a masterpiece.”

“I’m sure if anyone can teach them anything, it’s you,” Brienne said dryly, feeling a bit like her old self again. 

Jaime turned off the shower, washing his hands clean of the gunk that had come out of Brienne’s hair, before beginning the first lather. He steadily massaged the (high quality, certainly not two-in-one) shampoo into Brienne’s her, rubbing firm circles into her scalp with his fingers. He tilted her head back, so that if her eyes had not been shut she knew she would probably have been able to see him looking down on her, an undercurrent of concern beneath his devil-may-care facade.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked softly.

“It is as you said,” Brienne said flippantly. “I wanted to put you in an early grave and this seemed the easiest way to do.”

“Now I know you don’t mean that Wench,” Jaime said, giving her hair a playful yank, “Not when your hair is in my hands.” He put down the shampoo and picked up the shower head. It was going to take a few more lather, rinse, repeats to get her head spotless. “And I know where the scissors are kept.”

Brienne gave a watery chuckle that gave way to a sob. Jaime washed out the shampoo and quietly stood to move in front of her. He placed an awkward hand on her knee, uncertain of his attempts to comfort her. Theirs was a strange friendship, the few moments of vulnerable sincerity slipping out almost by accident, and received in equal measures with empathy and embarrassment. This premeditated act of Jaime’s to offer comfort and induce confidence was out of both their comfort zones.

“Come on Wench,” he coaxed, reaching out to cup her chin and stroke her cheek with his thumb. “What happened?”

What happened? Brienne could barely remember. She remembered Goodwin making the announcement, she remembered the half hearted clapping drowned out by the own elated buzz in her ears. She remembered standing bare and vulnerable in the changing rooms after washing the chlorine off her skin. She remembered hearing a cackle of laughter and looking up to see a torrent of black sludge come pouring down from the top of the cubicle. There were flashes of phone lights and more laughter, like a pack of hyenas. Then there was Goodwin, red faced and thundering. There was security, grim faced as they marched Connington and his posse from the building. She remembered clear the evil looks they gave her as they spat ‘big bitch’ and ‘ugly cunt’ at her feet.

“Goodwin put me in the first team for the Championships,” she said at last, “And put me forward for the scholarship. He reckons I will go pro.”

“Isn’t that great?” Jaime asked. “It’s what you always wanted.”

Brienne nodded tightly. “It was what Ron Connington and Ben Bushy and Mark Mullendore and Edmund Amabrosend and Owen Inchfield and all their lot wanted as well,” she said bitterly. “And they really didn’t want ‘a chick’ swooping in and taking their rightful dues.”

“What about Hyle Hunt?” Jaime asked, his voice cool and even. “You said you two were friends, or close to friendly.”

“He didn’t take part,” Brienne said, “He just kept look-out, as he was quick to assure me. Gods, I thought you were meant to leave this stuff behind you by College.”

Jaime turned silence, his eyes glazing over in thought, making Brienne almost nervous. 

“Some people,” he began, a brittleness to his voice, “Some people never outgrow that type of shit. Some people are just naturally small, and petty, and they’re convinced the world owes them everything. And people like that, I wish I could say they get what’s coming for them. That at some point people like them have a fall and are forced to see how little they truly are. But most of the time, men like that live comfortably in the bubble they have been born in, congratulating each other on their own superiority. And when someone does come along, and holds up a mirror and throws their mediocrity into their face, there is nothing and no one more vicious. You showed them true talent, true strength, and for a moment they realised just how lacking they were in comparison.” He looked her square in the eye, holding her chin firm even as the intensity of his gaze nearly made Brienne wish she could look away. “You are remarkable, and they are worthless. And they saw that, as clear as I see it now.”

His hand slid behind the back of her head, drawing her closer until his lips were a hair's breadth away from her own, and drawing her closer still until they were touching.

Brienne blinked as Jaime drew away, the memory of his lips still lingering on her own. He methodically stood up and began lathering in the second helping of shampoo.

“People can see how brilliant you are,” Jaime assured her. “And some people have the sense to celebrate it, even when others are too weak and cowardly to do also.”

“You know a lot about people like that,” Brienne said softly.

“I’m a Lannister,” Jaime said harshly. “I grew up in a family of them.”

“But you’re a Lannister, and you’re nothing like that,” Brienne insisted. For one, there was nothing mediocre about Jaime. The man was distressingly good at everything. But also, beneath it all, was a heart that held a greater capacity for love than Brienne had ever known. “You’re kind.”

“I’ve never heard that said before,” Jaime scoffed. “Silver tongued arsehole seems to be the more typical description.”

“I didn’t say you were nice,” Brienne explained. “You’re kind.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Niceness is just a front. It’s easy, you put it on because it makes you look good and anyone can do it. But in the end it means nothing. Kindness is-” Brienne shrugged. “Kindness is action, it’s not always pleasant or sweet and it doesn’t always make other people like you, but you don’t be kind to be liked. Kindness, it means something. It lasts.”

“It’s sweet that you think me kind,” Jaime said quietly.

“I don’t think you’re kind, I know you’re kind-”

“But I’m also a Lannister,” Jaime informed her, methodically washing her hair with a calm detachment. “And do you know what that means?”

“I dread to think.”

“It means that, unfortunately for Ronnet Connington and Hunt the Cunt, that just because I have left the family business and lost access to the company vehicles, I still remember all the phone numbers of the company assassins.” 


End file.
